


Rusca's Delivery Service

by bukkunmoonsin (bukkunkun)



Series: The X-Men AU No One Asked For [9]
Category: Heneral Luna (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mutants, Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, actually just pure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5215064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bukkunkun/pseuds/bukkunmoonsin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He would have made a great courier, had the war not started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rusca's Delivery Service

**Author's Note:**

> [original post here](http://bukkun-moonsin.tumblr.com/post/132475913108/ruscas-delivery-service).

He would have made a great courier, had the war not started.

His mother always had him deliver things—breads, small presents, letters—to nearly everyone. In his hometown, he was known as Eduardo, the Ruscas’ Courier, and when he was younger he prided himself in how well he ran away from the Civil Guards chasing after him. Rusca had always been such a fast runner.

As a  _Mapalad_  who had been born and raised in the Spanish colonial period, he had learned—like many other young boys and girls—to hide his ability from the officers. As such, he always wore his mother’s shawl over his head, hiding his face from the officials chasing down every last  _Mapalad_  to have their heads on that week’s public execution.

He was one of the luckier children. A schoolmate of his, a little girl who had the ability to manipulate the earth beneath them, had been garrotted one time, on the month of his birth. It was something he couldn’t ever forget, watching her body shudder for a long, terrible moment, before going absolutely still.

He could sometimes hear her mother and father sobbing, in his dreams, never quite drowned out by the trauma of the war he was fighting.

Then the Revolution started, and he, once again, played the courier for the Katipuneros. He never really knew the men above him, but he knew he was doing well for his country by helping, right?

Yet as he handed over a letter, only slightly out of breath, the wind still whirling at his sudden stop, he couldn’t help but feel like he’d done something wrong, especially when the man he handed the letter to—the molekinetic Supremo, Bonifacio—had this  _look_  on this face that had Rusca’s gut turning in worry.

“Supremo?” he asked softly, and the man looked at him, and God did he never look more tired than the few times Rusca saw him.

“Rusca, was it?” he asked, and the younger nodded his head, watching Bonifacio as he picked up a letter on his table. “Have this delivered to Jacinto.”

“Yes, sir.” Rusca replied, taking the envelope. “Is there anything you want said to him?”

Bonifacio paused to think, and looked back at Rusca. “… Give the letter back, friend.” He quietly said, and Rusca did as he was told. The man looked down at the envelope quietly, before turning to his desk to write a message down on a spare sheet of paper. “Here.” He handed it back, and Rusca read it:  _I need you, please._

He looked at Bonifacio, who looked nothing like a strong leader. He looked tired, done with everything— _frightened_ about something and Rusca couldn’t shake the feeling he’d done something very, very wrong.

“Please bring Jacinto to me.”

“I’ll be back, sir.”

The young man—barely a man, at barely past 20—readily agreed for Rusca to take him to where Bonifacio was the moment he saw the letter. Without much fuss, Rusca carried the telepath in a bridal carry, and carefully had him transported faster than any horse or carriage could to where Bonifacio was staying.

Jacinto practically ran to where the man was, before Rusca could even say what he usually did: “Rusca’s delivery service…”

Bonifacio gave him a tired nod, after a meaningful glance at Jacinto. “Thank you. You may go now.”

Rusca almost wanted to stay, to apologize for whatever it was he felt like he did wrong, but Ka Oryang walked into the room, and he quietly excused himself to leave.

It didn’t take long for him to find out that the letter he had delivered was Bonifacio’s warrant of arrest. When he found out of Bonifacio’s death, he had shut himself in his room for days out of grief. God only knew how hard Ka Oryang and Jacinto took it.

When the  _next_ war broke out, and Rusca found himself directly on the frontlines again, he was a courier yet again, this time for a very different leader.

Luna was… different from Bonifacio. Though, Rusca couldn’t really compare the two—the time he spent with Bonifacio was like a second compared to a minute he spent with Luna. The man was proud, upright, and proud of him being a  _Mapalad_ and a Filipino, and Rusca found himself wanting to be like him when he matured more.

Luna had him deliver so many things—telegrams—

(“ _Rusca’s Delivery Service_!” he panted, rushing into the President’s office, much to the man’s surprise and the mild interest of his adviser, “Tele… gram…! From. Phew, wait a sec—General…  _Luna_.”)

—Rations—

(“Rusca’s Delivery Service!” he called, tossing two flasks of water at the  _tiradores_ as around him his world exploded in dried grass and dirt and gunpowder. “Hold on fast there,  _kapatid_!”)

—letters, to Isabel—

(“Rusca’s Delivery Service.” He quietly said, when the  _Cruz Roja_  doctor opened her door with a scowl, which immediately disappeared at the sight of Rusca’s tired grin. “A letter, from General Luna.”

Isabel would smirk, and take the letter. “Hmph. Why won’t he deliver it himself, I wonder.” She would then hand him an  _ensaymada_  bun for his trouble, and would nearly always reject Rusca’s question of whether or not she had something to send back to Luna.)

—and, strangest of all,  _people_.

“The eagle has taken the crow, Presidente Aguinaldo wanted you to know.” Rusca reported, walking alongside Gregorio in his camp. The shapeshifter  _Mapalad_ jolted, and the momentary lapse in his concentration had his eyes—usually chocolate brown in the sunlight—flicker yellow. “… Goyong, your eyes.”

The general jolted again, and blinked a few times to get the colour back. “… Sorry you had to see that.” He apologised, and Rusca grinned at him brightly.

“No big deal. I don’t mind you shifting without realising it. It’s actually pretty cool.”

Gregorio  _looked_  at him with an expression he couldn’t read, and while he found himself finding it rather uncomfortable, he chose not to let his friend know. It was bad to demoralise your friends, especially at a time like this, Paco always told him, which is why he held his tongue.

“… Thank you, Rusca.” Gregorio replied quietly, “Where is the President?”

“In his headquarters. The Americans are still there, actually, so I’m guessing that whatever he meant by eagles taking something, well, they couldn’t have gone far.” Rusca shrugged, “It’s likely they’re still in the area,” whatever those eagles are, he added under his breath, but Gregorio’s eyes widened.

“You’re right, Rusca.” He nodded, “Thank you.”

“No big deal.” The speedster grinned. “So. Want me to get you there before anyone gets away?” he asked, and Gregorio looked so surprised that it made Rusca laugh. “C’mon, Goyong. For old times’ sake. Remember when I ran around with you on my back? That was fun, right? I swear I won’t drop you. I’ve transported people before!”

He remembers Jacinto, and regrets it. Still, he hides his misgivings with a smile.

Gregorio studies his smile, and relents, chuckling.

“You and your speeding. Really.” He shifted to his younger self, the little boy Rusca came to know, and laughed lightly. “So, are you going to take me there or not?”

“You bet.” Rusca grinned widely, and picked him up easily as he did Jacinto. “Rusca’s Delivery Service, coming through!”

Gregorio’s laugh, and the way he held onto his hat, was something he dearly missed.

He should really hang out with him more often after the war.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

Weeks later, Luna was assassinated, in the longest, most painful murder Rusca had ever seen in his life on the frontlines, and Paco had been shot—several times—mercilessly. He was just a _human_ , for goodness’ sake. What had he done to deserve that?

Rusca couldn’t run—he couldn’t find the strength in himself to do so. He let himself get arrested, and after facing a stone-faced Aguinaldo— _with no Mabini by his side, **why** —_he was spared execution.

It was because he was a  _Mapalad_ , Aguinaldo had said. How he wished he’d off himself off right then and there.

Gregorio came to visit him, one evening, and when midnight struck, Rusca felt Gregorio slide him the key to his cell into his hand, a meaningful look in his eyes, desperate and  _needing_  something Rusca couldn’t place.

“Rusca’s Delivery Service?” he asked quietly, and Rusca wanted to simply cry all over again.

“At your service,” he croaked, voice hoarse from disuse and overuse, and he could see something  _break_  in Gregorio’s eyes.

“I want you to deliver something for me.” Gregorio pressed the key into Rusca’s hand, and wrapped his hands around his fist, squeezing. “I have someone precious I want you to take far, far away from Cabanatuan.”

“Goyong—” Rusca’s eyes widened.

“He’s my dearest…” Gregorio paused, swallowed, and breathed. “ _Friend_. I just want him to live, free, and safe. Away from all this blood, from politics, from the decisions made by those more powerful than he is.”

There were tears welling in his eyes again, and Gregorio’s image reflected in the rainbows of his tears, flickering brown and blue in the dim light of the lamp above the door of his cell.

“Rusca, run far, far away. Stay safe for me.” Gregorio whispered, “I’ll be heading to Tirad Pass tomorrow, and I’m not sure if I can say goodbye to you before I go then.”

“Please don’t go.” Rusca found himself saying, but Gregorio smiled at him sadly.

“We have responsibilities to this war that are greater than our feelings.” He replied, and took Rusca’s hand in his. He squeezed it warmly, and stroked its dorsum with his thumb. “… Rusca, I…”

They fell silent, and when their eyes met, Gregorio’s eyes were yellow again.

“Goodbye.” He quietly said, and brushed his lips over Rusca’s knuckles. “I hope you live a long, happy life.”

“… Goodbye, Goyong.” Rusca simply said, and they shared one last look, before the General walked away. Rusca waited for his footsteps to go out of earshot, and took a deep breath. He steadied himself, and unlocked the door.

The guards barely had time to react to the sound of it unlocking—by the time they got there, Rusca was already gone, running along the dirt road away from Cabanatuan, tears in his eyes, the wind in his hair, and the warmth of Gregorio’s hand lingering in his.


End file.
